1am

i was supposed to drink tea with my friend and neighbour. 9pm, as soon as the children sleep. everything was ready: an almost tidy kitchen, an easy knitting project, new loose-leaf tea and a freshly baked apple pie (we went apple-picking, we went apple-picking, we went apple-picking today) (to be sung at the top of your lungs).

she must have given up by now, the friend and neighbour. and gone to bed. and maybe even forgiven me (she knows it's dicey business, putting the children to bed).

and here i am, 1am. re-reading my blog. starting from all the way in 2007, and working my way slowly through the weeks, the months, the years. crying and laughing, catching a glimpse of a different self. where did she go, that funny, honest, raw, sensitive, beautiful woman? did i lose her along the way? i hope not, hope not, hope not.

looking for something else, too, in between the lines, the photographs. looking for what happened. the how, the why, the wherefore. there must have been signs, leading from there to here. warnings. whisperings.

i could not find any. no explanations. only an unfolding.

between september 2007 (new baby in the house, happily married people, joyful children, creativity and love gallore) and september 2011 (new baby in the belly, scared divorcing lonely people, sad lost children, grief, anger, excitement, and shame): what happened? what happened?

in september 2007 i knew so much. i know so little today. tomorrow, i will know less. but i know who i love. and i know how to hold grief (mine and yours). gently. i know where to put my foot down, for the next step. and if i don't know yet, i might know once i lift it.

maybe that's all you ever need to know. Sam's uncle Jim said: "When driving in the dark, you don't need to see further than your headlights see."

maybe. maybe. maybe.

her carriage

the crocodile he made himself

note the moving head and the little band-aid where a nail was inconveniently sticking out ("het maakt niet uit, mama, ik doe er gewoon een pleistel op")

her new pen

37 things i am loving...

...on my 37th birthday: gipsy music, chocolate cake, illegal scented roses, the summer heat, andrei zadorine, poetry, gentle breezes, swimming naked, crispy clean wind-blown white sheets, playing accordion, eyeore, baking bread, my children, dancing, adventures, new friends, inner quiet, chaos, home-made washing liquid, swooshing skirts, the unknown, french movies, raspberries, writing, men, blueberries, the rain, pakistani mangoes, old friends, the woods, high silvery grass, sex, field flowers, climbing trees, colette, women, rhubarb.

happy birthday to all of you also celebrating your mortality today!

in this one... (a fiction)

in this one, the sun is shining. it's always shining, the sun of summer photographs. the river in the background is grey dark blue, it blends with the sky, and there are reeds sticking out on either side of my small fat body, turning me into a plump, rather startled lion cub emerging from the high grass of the savannah. i am wearing a striped shirt. horizontal stripes do not suit small plump people. the shirt is loose, yet stretches oddly in the middle, where my tummy would be. i am wearing this striped shirt and not much else besides. my mouth is pouting, my eyes squinting, almost shut, against the glare of the sun.

i can tell that it's you taking the photograph by the resistant, resigned patience of my body. the sun is hurting my eyes. the grass is scratching my legs. where my thighs meet, at the top, they stick together with sweat. my tata is taking a photograph. i am thirsty. don't move, you said. i am hungry. don't move, you said. beyond the black eye of the camera, i can see the infinite stretch of the dark pine forest. no breeze. the river is gurgling in my back. right behind you, there is shade, and coolness, and the sweetness of pine scent. don't move, you said. don't move. so i don't. i stand there, sweaty, uncomfortable, blind. the way i will stand in the world for many, many years to come.

until one day, i'll forget, and i will move, i will run, in a body so lean and so supple i will barely recognize it as my own. i will run straight past you and your black, scrutinizing, unforgiving eye, into the forest where the wolves are waiting to play with me.

poppies

they grow. between the railway tracks, along the high and low ways, on lost allotments. in all the spaces with no name, the spaces in between the labels. bright, oblivious. hopeful. they grow.

apoptosis

Keep walking, though there’s no place to get to.
Don’t try to see through the distances.
That’s not for human beings.
Move within, but don’t move the way fear makes you move.
Rumi

angel

dabbling in the tarot lately. last night, before going out, i pulled the death card. end of cycle. transformation. regeneration. then i went out, the church bells rang, the guitars wept, and the past rose up to meet me face to face. there is no such thing as 'dabbling' in the tarot.

and the little ant climbs the foot of the angel of death.
to her, it looks just like any other stone.

doll house

for a few days of a few weeks of a few months, i live in a very little house. there are roses on the wardrobe. squirrels in the window-sill. cool blood-stained sheets on the bed. a tree to sit in. old graves to stamp on. doors to bang so hard the paint falls off. a shower so hot it will wash away any pain. a wooden floor to twirl on. silence, and music, and real darkness at night.

it's perfect. but it's a doll house. and i am not a doll.

tree life

my kitchen again

i was going to wax lyrical, but words are falling short. i just love it so. it's magic.

in my kitchen

there is now soup, bread, jam, sunshine, home-made aioli, potato pancakes, smiling children with big eyes, and slightly tired field flowers. the only thing missing from my kitchen, is me.

what big eyes

these children have. and how much they see.

on the return

all right, so i miss it. i miss you guys. i miss bread-making, jam stirring, photographing, putting words together without worrying too much how 'artistic' they are, tomato-soup making, child-hugging, child-sniffing, floor sweeping, nonsense muttering and bathroom tile cleansing. this is not the only space from which i have been absent lately. but it's through here, as always, that i notice my own return.

and it's good...

adios

No Other Way said a rather prophetic poster on a wall a while ago. and trust you me, the way i've been trying, if there had been another way, i surely would have found it by now. but it seems the universe rests on laws that cannot be trifled with. and here is one:

the only way to make room for the new is to let go of the old
after five and a half years (five and a half years!!!!!!!!!!), i am ready, my dear, dear readers, to say good-bye to this space. you have been my good friends on the journey of life, you have seen me, heard me, supported me, held me and witnessed me, and i would not be the person that i am today if it had not been for you. thank you. for the love. for being there. take care of yourselves, and may we meet again!

xxx
Véronique

day 9: the little prince

So the little prince tamed the fox. And as the hour of his departure drew near —

"Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."

"It's your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any harm; but you wanted me to tame you..."

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince.

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"Then it has done you no good at all!"

"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields."

And then he added: "Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret."

The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

...

And he went back to meet the fox.

"Goodbye," he said.

"Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, it's very simple: You can only see well with your heart; the essential is invisible to the eye."

"The essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would remember.

"It is the time you have spent on your rose that makes your rose so important."

"It is the time I have spent on my rose — " said the little prince, so that he would remember.

"People have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose..."

"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would remember.

day 8: japan

tonight, from 8 to 9, a one-hour meditation for japan., using tonglen. do you want to join me?

day 7: lovingkindness

may i be happy
may i be safe
may i be healthy
may i be peaceful

may you be happy
may you be safe
may you be healthy
may you be peaceful

day 6: etymology of passion

from L.L. passionem (nom. passio) "suffering, enduring," from stem of L. pati "to suffer, endure," meaning "strong emotion, desire" is attested from late 14c., sense of "sexual love" first attested 1580s; that of "strong liking, enthusiasm, predilection" is from 1630s. The passion-flower so called from 1630s.